


Only the Lucky Survive

by PrinceMathias



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Fluff, Harry is a Little Shit, Tom Riddle Did Not Sign Up For This
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 20:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceMathias/pseuds/PrinceMathias
Summary: Tom Riddle made a mistake. His mistake? He completely underestimated Potter Luck.Now the brat is a king.And Tom is his glorified babysitter.





	1. A History of Luck

The Potter family was an old and well-known Pureblood house in Wizarding Britain, not because of their jewels and riches, or power and charisma (though they had all in spades), but because of the abundance of strange and fortuitous events that surround its members. The reason behind these happenings, commonly known (affectionately by allies and derisively from foes) as Potter Luck, is a complete mystery to anyone outside of the family. The only location of the truth is inside the Potter Family Grimoire which was created and protected by Blood Magic, long before such magics were outlawed by the Ministry.

The name Potter in the Muggle world originally referred to those who (obviously) made or worked with pots. The Wizarding Potters were likewise given their name by their unknowing Muggle neighbors who almost never saw a member of the family without a 'pot.' Of course, the 'pot' in question was in all actuality a cauldron, for the Potter family was always experimenting with potions and poisons and antidotes and cure-alls and was never shy with giving the finished (and not-so-finished) products to wizards and muggles alike. While this would often get the family scorn in the eyes of the more secluded wizarding families, they were still a rather well-liked bunch as they were genial and rather agreeable, if arguably barmy (the potion fumes may have had a hand).

It is their propensity for potions that is the secret to their overwhelming and astounding luck. A certain member of the family some hundred years ago had been brewing and experimenting with a potion that would later on be the basis for the well-known (if slightly toxic) Liquid Luck potion, Felix Felicis (also a product of the Potter family). The brew in question had been rather tempestuous, bubbling over and frothing if the man looked away for even a second. The wizard himself had been overjoyed with his progress, a manic grin across his face as he leaned over his cauldron which was continuously hissing and spitting at him in its golden luminous brilliance. It was when he had added the fang from a particularly obstinate and unyielding wyvern that the potion decided it had had enough and promptly exploded in the wizard's face.

Instead of causing irreparable damage and injury to the wizard (which had happened before many times, to him and his predecessors), the glimmering gold potion sunk into his skin and every open orifice. It had burned the man's eyes and had tasted of the ambrosia of the gods if his account in the grimoire is to be believed. The man hadn't thought much of the results of the potion until nearly a fortnight later when he was suddenly engaged to the love of his life who had scorned him for years previously (he was never much of a looker with gleaming eyes and manic grins and hair always a mess from generations of potions exploding in faces). Indeed, everything in his life had seemed to take an upturn for the better. More gold, more food, more attention and renown, and the love of a beautiful woman. And the only visual side effects were his slightly shimmering skin and newly unnerving bright golden eyes.

When two years passed and his wife gave birth to his first-born son, it was with surprise and worry that he noticed his son had inherited the golden tan. And when his eyes were revealed to be brown like his beautiful wife's but with swirling flecks of gold, it was with more worry that the wizard went back over his notes from the brew that changed his life. He tried brewing it once more, with the exact same ingredients and the exact same specifications as before, but while his previous brew had been angry and brilliant, the re-make had been dull and lifeless. He would puzzle over this mystery for years, always trying to recreate his first masterpiece to only get the same result.

It was when his son grew old enough to begin learning the family craft that he finally understood just what sort of magic he had managed to create. While the wizard had burns and slight disfigurements from his childhood and adult potions experiments, his son was continuously mark free. That isn't to say his brews didn't explode just as often, just that instead of getting harmed, the boy always miraculously stayed complete and whole and unhurt. As the wizard continued to watch his son and document his progress, he began to notice that it wasn't just within the potions lab that his son's fortune flew. Good things just seemed to happen to the young Potter. And when his son's wife gave birth to a son with a golden tan and partly golden eyes who was just as lucky as his father, he wasn't as surprised or shocked. And thus, the Potter family's famous luck was born.


	2. Pulling the Sword from the Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom learns why he should always pay attention to the enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry Potter had always been a very lucky boy. From his earliest memory, whether it be simply finding a lost coin in the park or winning a raffle or award he hadn't thought he'd entered, good things seemed to happen to him. If he had to pinpoint a time where his luckiness had started as a child, he would say it started with the cupboard incident (when he turned eleven and learned of magic however, he decided it must have started even earlier, how else would he have survived that night?).

The cupboard incident, as he liked to call it, began when he was barely older than a toddler. He had finally been potty trained and had outgrown Dudley's first crib, so Aunt Petunia decided it was time to give him a room of his own. She had spoke with Uncle Vernon and decided the best place for him was obviously the cupboard under the stairs (the guest room was reserved for Aunt Marge and the other unused room was currently used for storing all of Dudley's extra equipment and toys). So later that day Harry was deposited atop a stained toddler cot inside the cupboard and told quite firmly to not make any noise. Harry, being the delightful child he is, completely disregarded the warning and after his first (and only) nap inside the cupboard began babbling loudly. Unknown to the young Harry, Aunt Petunia was currently hosting a tea party with the other ladies of the neighborhood in the living room. Upon hearing the noise, the women went to investigate (ignoring Aunt Petunia's excuses) and found little Harry locked in the cupboard under the stairs, green eyes blinking up at them curiously when they opened the door.

One of the women in attendance was Mrs. Number 8, a kind yet stern woman with a job in child services. Needless to say, before nightfall Harry was set up in a newly cleaned up room, Dudley's stuff now placed in the attic and under the stairs, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon was on thin ice with the part of the government devoted to child safety and health. Ever since, Mrs. Number 8 has pointedly made house visits to check on the 'sweet Harry' with many thinly veiled threats and glares thrown his relatives' way. Harry always makes sure to smile at her whenever he sees her.

After that Harry's luck seemed to skyrocket. When out shopping, cashiers and workers would offer him free cookies. When Dudley had a toy or book he wanted, Dudley would conveniently lose interest and offer it to him. When he outgrew clothes, he would take a walk and come upon a neighbor who was getting ready to give their son's outgrown clothes to charity and would offer them to him.

Life was good for Harry. Even if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never paid any positive attention (or money) on him, the world just seemed to love Harry Potter and give him anything he could ever want or need. Teachers known to hate kids were kind to him. Teachers who actually hated him had unfortunate accidents. Other kids seemed to gravitate towards him even though he rarely showed interest in them. He was unusually good at most things he showed interest in, and for those in which he wasn't, any accidents or missteps on his part smoothed over quite easily.

Of course when he learned of magic his luckiness went up to even new (and oftentimes quite dangerous) heights but that wasn't really the point.

The _point_ , is that Harry Potter had always been a very lucky boy, and because of that, he wasn't overly worried or nervous as he looks at the bragging ghostly teenaged boy who had just revealed himself to be the younger version of Lord Voldemort, who was currently in possession of his wand and could call out a giant deadly snake to attack him at any second.

Despite now knowing who he was, Harry still thought the teen to be pretty in a girly sort of way. Dark brown hair ending in little upwards curls and dark eyes staring at him intensely in a rather aristocratic and slightly androgynous face. Tall and thin and pretty were all words that could describe the older boy along with long-winded, snooty, and slightly (highly) annoying. Harry was only barely listening to the boy's monologue about his history and bloodline, only really tuning back in when he said his name.

"--a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

Tom Riddle finally finished, a slightly manic grin on his face, eyes shining brightly in the eerie light still completely focused on Harry (completely ignoring the dying eleven year old at Harry's feet). The younger boy just stared blankly at Tom, wondering why the older boy was waiting for his response looking like a kid showing their parents their report card with full marks.

Finally getting tired of the pregnant pause, Harry gave a tiny, slow smile as drawled, "You're not."

The response seemed to confuse the young future murderer as he blinked at him twice, grin slipping, before snapping.

"Not what?"

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world. Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but uh," he paused, giving a very obvious look up and down the see-through teen's body, "you can hardly call someone who was defeated by a baby the strongest in the world."

It was almost funny how such a pretty face could become ugly so quickly in anger. Suddenly Harry found his own wand pointed at his neck by a snarling baby Voldemort.

"You must think you're something great just because you survived my older self once, but let me let you in on a little secret, _Harry_ ," he hissed, leaning in closer, "You will not survive me today, for _I_ am _truly_ _ **great**_."

Well, Harry thought, leaning away from Tom with widened eyes, he's certainly not lacking in self-confidence.

Before Harry could bother to think up a response to _that_ , music began reverberating throughout the chamber. The tune itself was something that sounded sacred and it felt like every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire with excitement, giddiness, and energy. Both boys stepped away from each other, looking around for the source of the music.

Fire erupted in thin air above the humongous statue of what was supposedly Salazar Slytherin (apparently big-headedness ran in the family) and from it appeared a rather large bird that Harry recognized as it swooped down nearer to them. Dumbledore was right after all, he was a handsome bird when he wasn't looking like something halfway through preparation for Christmas dinner or a naked squirmy newborn.

Tom seemed just as surprised as he watched the bird approach, apparently thinking aloud (Harry was almost one hundred percent positive the teen just liked to hear himself speak) as he muttered, "That's a phoenix..."

Harry winced as the _very large_ bird landed on his tiny and thin shoulders, golden talons clutching him almost (but not quite) gently. "Fawkes?" Harry whined before looking at the object he had caught by reflex (Wood's obsessive weekly seeker training was good for something at least).

"And _that_ , that's the old school Sorting Hat..."

This time Tom's voice was tinged with hysterical amusement. Harry's mouth downturned in a frown as his hands ran over the crinkly old hat he had worn twice already, Tom's hysteric laughter ringing in his ears.

"This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?"

Harry hated to say it, but he kind of agreed. What the heck was he supposed to do with a hat? Fawkes would at least be useful, for emotional support if nothing else (though he expected he would be more helpful as he was a _literal fire bird_ and those talons digging into his shoulder weren't something to scoff at).

Harry was having a flashback back to the beginning of first year when he had first seen the Sorting Hat and had thought he was meant to pull a rabbit from it. Slightly unhinged from the still laughing Tom (he was nearly doubling over now), Harry quickly stuck his hand inside the hat and _wished_.

And, okay-- that is definitely not a rabbit.

What his hand grabs is metallic and very, very heavy. As he pulls it out he can't help the excited gasp and awed, "Whoa," that slips out because, _yes_ , that is a real sword in his hand. He quickly drops the Sorting Hat to grab the hilt with both hands and try to childishly swing around the silver and gold sword that probably weighs more than him like some valiant knight from Medieval based children's movies.

Of course, it really is a lot harder than it looks because of the heaviness of the thing and, as it would happen, Harry accidentally slashes the sword onto the shoulder of the still hunched over laughing teen. Unlike simply going through the ghostly boy as he thought would happen, the blade lands solidly on Tom's shoulder, causing the boy to abruptly stop laughing and look up at him in surprised anger.

Harry blinks.

"Oops."

Fury lines the older boy's face and he opens his mouth to probably rant before he is quickly cut off. Harry's magic, that had been dancing around in his previous excitement, was now flowing through the sword and into Tom, causing the teen to drop to his knees. His dark eyes were now pinning Harry's own green, anger and panic in equal measure swirling within.

"What. _Did._ _ **You**_ _._ _**DO?** "_

Each word was enunciated with more and more anger and Harry was at a loss for what to do. No matter how hard he tried, his hands wouldn't move or let go of the sword and his magic kept pulsing happily and running eagerly through the sword to the older boy. Tom himself had let go of Harry's holly wand in surprise and seemed unable to move from his kneeling position in front of Harry. Harry gulped uneasily, knowing wholly that what he said next would piss the teen off even more, leaving it to come out as more of a whine than anything else.

"I don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Dumbledore nods sagely as Harry admits to killing a man.
> 
> I love writing this fic guys omg


	3. I Dub Thee Sir Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical Britain is now in the control of a twelve year old. Congratulations.

Tom Riddle, sixteen year old magical prodigy with ideas (delusions) of grandeur and power, was currently forced to grit his teeth in seething anger, his long fingers tapping rhythmically on his elegantly crossed legs as he stared at the two most infuriating people he had ever met.

Albus Dumbledore, the man he has hated for the past five years (discounting the fifty spent inanimate), was calmly sucking on a lemon candy and looking positively ancient behind what was once Headmaster Dippet's desk. When Tom had made a comment on how he was surprised he was still alive, the man had the gall to smile peacefully at him before offering him a lemon drop.

Sitting in the plush chair identical to and beside Tom's own in front of the desk was the tiny waif that is Harry bloody Potter, swinging his feet which could not touch the ground back and forth as he stared fixedly at the _sword_ in his lap. Tom would almost call the boy charming in a boyish way with his messy black hair and gold-flecked green eyes except for the fact that he is literally the bane of Tom's very existence and Tom wanted him dead preferably before he even met him. Especially considering the information Dumbledore had just cheerily imparted upon them.

“So,” Harry began hesitantly, “I'm a king?”

It took every ounce of self-control not to reach over and strangle the brat.

Dumbledore just continued smiling and nodded at the boy.

“And,” here, he looks at Tom nervously, “You're my knight.”

Tom gritted his teeth once more and took in a harsh breath before biting out, “Apparently.”

The boy just nodded and let out a quiet, “Ah,” before looking back at the sword in his lap.

Gods, Tom hated him.

Harry himself felt as if this was one of those out-of-body experiences he had heard some of the hippie teens talk about. Honestly it was just kind of hard to wrap his head around all of it. He pulled a sword from a hat… and that automatically makes him a king? He had thought that only worked with stones.

He snorted. He was Arthur freaking Pendragon apparently.

Except he really hopes not because that would really suck to be killed by your son you had with your half-sister. Yeah. Harry furiously scratched out the thought.

The sword was really beautiful, he thought. The blade itself was long and silver and so reflective he could see himself in the metal. The hilt was a bright gold adorned with pure rubies and his thumb kept rubbing the name Godric Gryffindor emblazoned in the gold.

According to Professor Dumbledore, the Founders had literally been royalty. Not by birth, but by conquering all of Magical Britain together. That had been a surprising history lesson. Once conquering all of what had once been Albion, they opened their castle, Hogwarts, to young witches and wizards to be free from persecution while they learned magic. Because they opened the first magical school, their country flourished with education and order. 

They were smart, however, and knew better than to only bind their power to a bloodline after their death, so for one of their heirs to take their place as King or Queen, they must be significantly powerful and they had to pass a test that was never written down or specified. Therefore the heir rightfully deserved the title instead of merely doing what they must to get the royal title.

Each test was different for each title. The monarch of Gryffindor's test was to pull Godric's sword out of his hat in protection of an innocent. There had only been three prior rulers of Gryffindor before Harry, and one of them was Godric himself (Salazar had only had one heiress who rose to Queen, Ravenclaw had seven heirs who took the throne, and Hufflepuff had the most with a total of twelve).

So he now was technically in control of Magical Britain, as the Ministry was created to lead in the absence of one of the monarchs and must bow to them once one appears. Harry was twelve. He was kind of concerned that Professor Dumbledore doesn't see a problem with this.

Of course another thing to think about was what he had accidentally done to the child version of his parents' murderer. Apparently touching a sword to a shoulder by a monarch signifies to magic that the King claims the person as a Knight.

So miniature Voldemort is now his Knight in shining armor. Maybe he should buy him a white horse as an apology.

Yeah, no, Harry's almost positive Tom would try to find a way around the magic that prevents him from harming Harry to kill him if he did.

As it is, he already looks like he'd like nothing more than to kill him.

There's also the fact that it was Harry's magic and their new bond that provided Tom with a solid corporeal flesh and blood body. Ginny was now probably being coddled by Pomfrey in the infirmary, Tom's grand master plan of killing a defenseless first year to get a body ripped to shreds by magic of master and servant. No wonder the older teen is so prickly.

Harry idly looked at the magic that was definitely _Harry's_ that was surrounding the other boy like a taint or claim, constantly giving pulses of power to the servant who was now sworn to protect him with his very life. Even more astounding was the magic that could only be described as _Tom's_ that was reaching towards Harry, acting like loving and obedient dog begging for scraps of affection. It was completely absurd when paired with the completely pissed off and disgusted face of the teen.

The twelve year old pouted, still petting the sword's engraving as he looked from spinning bauble to glowing knick-knack. This day was going from bad to weird.

“Well,” he finally sighed, “At least this is better than the end of last year.”

Tom turned sharply to him, dark eyes widening in disbelief.

“What could possibly be worse than this?”

Ah, the slightly hysterical hiss is back.

Harry gave a stern look to Tom before proudly exclaiming, “Nobody died this time!”

The teen's eyebrows rose and his mouth dropped open minutely. Harry was almost proud to see he made him lose his perfect composure.

“Who died?”

Well the hysterical note to his tone is gone, but now it was undeniably flat.

“Our Defense professor.”

Tom gave a quick glance at Dumbledore to see his reaction and was disturbed when he took in the still all too calm smile and sagely nodding. The sixteen year old oddly felt like he was about to take a plunge off a sea cliff.

“How did he die?”

With his intuition screaming alarm bells in warning, Tom braced himself for the answer.

“Oh, I killed him.”

But apparently not enough. A harsh gasp left the older boy in a wheeze as he asked, “You what?”

He could feel the panic begin to rise in him again. How he hated this boy and how unnatural he made him feel constantly, like tangoing with certain death when he had two left feet. The green eyed little monster showed no signs of taking back what he said, only calmly adding in a conversational tone, “Well, burned him alive really. With my bare hands and all. Accidental magic, you know?”

Just like he was talking about something as simple as the weather. Tom wanted both to drown the brat and run for the hills and never look back at his supposed Lord and Master.

“You burned someone _alive_ with _accidental magic_?”

The boy had the gall to look offended.

“Well, yeah, but he was trying to kill me!”

Tom took a steadying breath, mentally smoothing out his mask and physically smoothing out his clothes. This was turning out to be a complete nightmare. He should have never left the message taunting the boy to the chamber. He should have just killed that annoying little girl and _left_ while he still had his sanity intact.

“Why was your Defense professor trying to kill you?”

Harry gave him a confused look before dawning comprehension alighted on his face. The most horrifying metaphorical sunrise Tom had ever seen because he just _knew_ whatever was about to come out of the boy's mouth would be a punch in the gut.

“Oh right, you don't know,” Harry said, eyes looking over Tom's form in intrigue and pity, “He was being possessed by Voldemort.”

Ah, yes, there was the punch.

“Your Defense professor,” he began, taking another steadying breath as he silently prayed to anyone who would listen to have mercy on him, “Was possessed by my older self.”

Now Harry was joining Dumbledore in his nodding, looking as if he was a tired old wise shaman instead of the twelve year old apparent _murderer_ turned King.

“Yeah, had a face on the back of his head and everything,” he said before he suddenly frowned in disgust, “It was actually really ugly.”

Tom was almost convinced his soul wasn't completely tethered to his new body. He was tired, so tired. He should have never answered back when Ginny wrote in the diary. He should have just pretended to be a useless book that disappeared anything written in it. He would have _never made the Horcrux in the first place_ if it meant he did not have to be here, in the gaudily decorated Headmaster's office surrounded by psychos, and wishing he still had the ability to cry.

“ _Hogwarts has really gone to the dogs in the last fifty years._ ”

He honestly hadn't meant to say the thought aloud, but it had become a habit to speak in Parseltongue without thought, as it kept the hormonal masses in line out of fear. Unfortunately for him, he was no longer the only one with the gift of the language as he quickly remembered as he saw the unamused pout of his new _King_ (and _oh_ , how he wanted to _rage_ and let his magic _utterly destroy_ something at the thought).

“ _Hey that's not very nice comparison you know. Dogs are perfectly loyal and_ _admirable animals._ ”

Tom glared at the brat, mentally imagining him going through a witch burning, snarling, “ _I almost forgot you spoke Parseltongue._ ”

The boy blinked at the tone, before frowning more before hissing, “ _Sorry?_ ” and _actually_ sounding _sorry_.

Dumbledore made himself known as he cleared his throat and finally joined into the frankly disturbing conversation since he had dropped the fact that Harry was now a King on them.

“Now, now boys, there is no need for you two to be fighting,” he said with all of the grandfatherly chiding tone of wisdom he could muster before smiling (again) at them, light blue eyes twinkle-twinkling, “Though Mr. Potter is right, Tom. Dogs are wonderful creatures.”

If Tom did not know such magics were completely out of the range the little blood traitor girl was capable of, he would be sure he had been dropped into an alternate dimension. This was too much. All he wanted was to collapse in his bed in the Slytherin dorm and sleep for another fifty years.

“I know _you_ aren't a Parselmouth. How did you understand that?” he finally asked, inwardly wary, outwardly looking like he wanted nothing more than to see the man's death (which he did).

The man just turned his sunny smile straight onto Tom, nearly blinding the boy in its intensity (and his rage).

“I've always had a fondness for languages. I'm currently working on polishing up my Gobbledygook and a dialect of chipmunk.”

Tom's mind blanked. He was done for the day. He could take no more of this.

“I… see,” he finally let out, with the best smile he could offer at that point, which was rather sad and pathetic and obviously fake.

Harry himself was contemplating what a chipmunk could possibly have to talk about (bragging rights on a horde of nuts?) before he admitted to himself that he hadn't expected snakes to be as intelligent as they were until he talked to one. For all he knew, chipmunks may very well have to answer to world hunger and peace and just no one has ever bothered to learn how to ask them. Don't judge until you put yourself in another's shoes after all. Although chipmunks don't have shoes so that's a bit of a moot point.

He was quickly brought out of his musings as Tom straightened up self-importantly, seemingly getting over his previous fatigue, as he sternly looks into the Headmaster's face.

“As enlightening as this evening has been, there are important matters to attend to if I am to fulfill my new _duties_.”

The last word is filled with such contempt and utter hatred that Harry is almost impressed. Even on Uncle Vernon's angriest days he had never managed that level of contempt for Harry, and that's saying something.

“Namely, my wand.”

Tom's voice said that it would accept no argument on this matter. Unluckily for him, Professor Dumbledore didn't seem to get the memo.

“I'm sorry, my boy, but your wand was never recovered,” the man looked truly apologetic, which was funny because Harry thought Tom looked truly murderous, “I'm afraid you will have to get a new wand.”

Tom's lips twisted in distaste, dark eyes almost burning, before he, as politely as he could (which wasn't very polite at all) replied, “No, that's impossible. Simply no other wand would work as well for me.”

Professor Dumbledore lost his smile for the first time since they had arrived in the office. His expression darkened, and just as he opened his mouth to reply, Fawkes landed in between them on his desk.

A high trill soothed the frayed nerves of all three males before the phoenix quite pointedly plucked one of it's long brilliant tail feathers and dropped it on the desk. It was most certainly a thing of beauty, a feather which seemed to have a constant burning fire within it. Harry was impressed with the magic wafting from it, hot and heavy and _regal_. It reminded him a lot of the feeling of his wand.

Professor Dumbledore's smile was rekindled as he utterly _beamed_ at the two boys.

“It seems, my boys, that Fawkes has decided to end our argument before it even begins by gracing us with a third feather.”

Tom's eyes narrowed as Harry caught on to what was implied and grinned himself.

“A third feather?”

The Headmaster nodded at Tom, “A third, to go along with the feather in your original wand and Harry's own. It seems the answer to your question on a wand has been given. You will simply get a newly forged wand to fit you just right.”

Harry thought Tom didn't seem quite as happy with the idea as the Professor clearly was, if the twitching of his right eye was anything to go by.

It was apparent he was stuck on something quite different however as he finally stated more than asked, “Harry and I have brother wands.”

Professor Dumbledore nodded obligingly, calm smile back on his face as he added another lemon drop to his mouth.

“Of course, how utterly silly of me to assume different,” Tom deadpanned.

Tom Riddle officially hated his life and quietly cursed Fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: A Gryffindor interrogation.
> 
> *in a tour guide's voice* "And here on the left you will see EVEN MORE CRACK"  
> Like Tommy you are the craziest psycho murderer in the room don't judge
> 
> Though seriously I think canon Harry needed a lot of therapy
> 
> I can't wait until we finally get to the point where Tom grows fond of Harry but that's not until the summer so his pov isn't so angsty. But it'll be great so look forward to that.


	4. Bedtime Stories for Lion Cubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Tom wants to do is sleep but the Gryffindors have other ideas.

Tom had never had any reason to see the inside of Gryffindor tower before today and his first thought upon entering was that the ostentatious and overabundant amount of red and gold was even gaudier than Dumbledore's eccentrically decorated office. Tom had sucked up what was left of his tattered pride and had asked Dumbledore if he could use the Slytherin dorms, but _no_ , he had to stay within the House of his _King_ to show _loyalty_.

Needless to say, Tom Riddle was not happy.

The fifth year was ready to sleep. Getting a body and going through an ancient magical bonding ritual was bad enough without dealing with Dumbledore and the little monster at the same time. Speaking of said little monster, the twelve year old was currently slinking through the common room in front of him, heading towards the largest most plushiest obnoxious chair in the room, closest to the fire and which looks over the entire common room. Tom idly noticed how even students older than him parted way for the boy as he moved. And as the brat plops most ungraciously onto the puffy red monstrosity and actually _lounges_ on it with one leg over a side and a long drawn out dramatic sigh, Tom clearly sees that _Gryffindor was the brat's territory_.

Even without being King, it was obvious the tiny _second year_ was the head of the Pride.

It was both oddly astounding and slightly terrifying.

Of course, Tom wasn't scared of him. Not at all.

As Tom was busy musing on Harry, other Gryffindors were studying him and Harry in equal measure. A slightly pudgy second year boy moved over to hover near the young boy and clears his throat as he glances warily at the sword dangling precariously on Harry's lap.

"Ah, Harry?"

The boy doesn't even open his eyes from where it's leaning on one of the armrests.

"Hm, Nev?"

Tom watched as the dirty blonde haired boy smiled at Harry easily despite the odd circumstance.

"What's with the sword?"

Harry opens one eye and lazily half-lifts his head and scans the boy's profile before lying back down and closing his eye once more.

"It's Godric Gryffindor's sword."

The pudgy boy's brown eyes widen before his smile turned into a grin.

"So you're the King of Gryffindor, now, Harry?"

At this, most of the Gryffindors quickly look over and focus on the new monarch in surprise and interest. Even Harry seems surprised as he finally half-sits up and asking the other boy curiously, "You know about this King stuff Neville?"

The boy, Neville, seems excited and nods quickly, replying, "Basic pureblood history lesson, Harry," and a pause before adding, "And Queen Hedwig of Gryffindor was a Longbottom so of course it was in my heir lessons too."

Harry's eyebrows raise in surprise before nodding in understanding. A redheaded boy who despite his tallness looked the same age as Harry came up to the chair as well.

"You're really King, mate? That's bloody amazing!"

Harry just hummed noncommittally which seemed to dull the boy's enthusiasm.

"Hey where's Hermione?"

The boy's blue eyes widened before murmuring awkwardly, "She's still in the infirmary petrified, Harry."

At Harry's quiet and disappointed, "Oh," the boy becomes slightly panicked. Looking around the common room for seemingly something else to say, his eyes fell upon Tom and immediately lit up.

"So why'd the slimy snake follow you into the common room?"

Tom immediately feels offended and scowls but Harry seems to brighten up at the comment.

"Oh, that's Tom," he chirps, looking over at the Slytherin and beckoning him over with a hand, "Come over here, Tom."

The near order rankles but it's better not to start a fight with the brat right now in his own territory. The quicker he can get this over with, the sooner he can head to bed.

As the fifth year glides over, Harry proclaims for all to hear, looking all the same as a proud parent, "This is Tom Riddle."

The redheaded boy blinks dumbly before asking, "Like the diary?"

The green eyed little monster grins.

"Exactly like the diary," he nods before continuing proudly (and loudly), "And he's my Knight."

The common room once again silences at the announcement. While it had quietened upon their entrance, there had still been ambient noise and hushed chattering in the background, but now it was deadly silent. Tom finds the silence highly unnerving. Gryffindors can't have changed that much in fifty years.

Before the silence can prolong, identical redheads appear leaning on both armrests, blue eyes shining madly.

"Oh?" they coo simultaneously.

"Little Harry is now-" "A little kingy-" "With a tall dark Slytherin-" "As his brave and courageous Knight?"

Tom idly wonders if the twins have telepathy before his nose twists in distaste at his description. Brave and courageous indeed.

Harry just grins up at the twins. The twins were the first two wizards who had stopped to properly talk to him back before the train ride in first year. Ever since, the two have taken initiative to act as mentors to the younger boy and he has always appreciated it. Neville was his go to for Pureblood knowledge, Hermione for obscure info and muggle subjects, but the twins were the ones who helped him with general wizarding knowledge he was never privy to growing up on Privet Drive.

It also helps that Fred and George appreciate his humor. And that he was the one of the only people in existence that could tell the two apart (he wasn't ever going to mention to them that it was only because their magic was different-- Fred's a bouncy, up-beat tempo while George's has more of a languid sway).

Fred leans in close, nose almost touching one of Harry's curls.

"Well, then I think it only appropriate-"

Here, George's arm sneaks around Harry's waist and tugs him to his side of the chair.

"That we do hereby swear our allegiance-"

They both move in front of the chair to kneel, looking up at Harry with blue eyes twinkling maniacally (did they learn that from Professor Dumbledore?).

"To our glorious-" "Amazing-" "Magical-" "Beautiful-" "Heroic-" "Gallant-" "Completely impossible-" "And wicked prankster!"

The two bowed from their kneeling position before simultaneously declaring, "KING!"

Harry feels the resulting swirl of their magic as it reaches for his at their declaration that proves the claim was actually magically binding and can't help the rush of affection he feels at their sworn loyalty.

"Your Majesty," Fred beamed up at him only to be elbowed by George who countered, "My liege."

Fred glared at George. George glared back.

"Your highness." "Your magnificence." "Your excellency." "Your wickedness." "Your royallness." "Your awesomeness."

They kept getting more and more vicious with each ridiculous name before they suddenly grinned malevolently and looked up at him and intoned, " _Milord_."

Harry couldn't help the mad giggles that left him at that point. Oh, how he dearly loved the twins. The whole common room seemed to relax and warm as the tension from the long day left him with each laugh.

The twin's grins turned into soft smiles and they both sat down at the foot of his chair. Fred leaned against a chair leg, and when Harry's laughter tapered off, he asked, "So what happened down in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry looked down at the twins with a smile before turning to Ron. His hands were so thoroughly bandaged he looked like a half-done Mummy and Harry couldn't fight off a smirk.

"Madame Pomfrey got you?"

Ron's face twisted in dismay. Harry only felt amused. Madame Pomfrey was a fine medi-witch, certainly. She just went a little-- Let's say overboard. You have a minor cold? A dose of Pepper-Up and bed rest for three stays straight. A sprain? She has a spell that will fix it quicker than you can sneeze but you still need bed rest for two days. You got a burn in Potions class? She has a rant about Snape, burn paste, and you must stay in the infirmary until the next morning. She tries hard, really, but because of her overreactions most students avoid the Medic Wing like the plague and try to self-medicate as much as they can.

"My hands got a couple scrapes from trying to dig out some of the cave-in," Ron complains before adding as if an afterthought, "Ginny's fine. Mum and Dad were floo called and are staying with her with Madame Pomfrey."

Harry nods, satisfied. Honestly Ginny had been the last thing on his mind for the past couple of hours but it was nice to know all the same that she was okay.

Dean stepped closer to the group near the fire, Transfiguration text still firmly gripped in his hands with pages of parchment with messy scrawl hanging out of it. It reminded Harry that he still had that essay on the theory of matter reconfiguration in small to large transfigurations that was due next Monday. Harry usually relied on Hermione to keep him on a regular schedule with studies. The past month and a half had been hard on his own. Ron was certainly no help.

"Did you really go into the Chamber of Secrets, Harry?" Dean asked, hazel eyes in a dark face shining brightly in excited fervor.

Harry smiles obligingly and waves him and others over. It was apparently story time in Gryffindor common room. This happened after every mini misadventure a Gryffindor went through, unless they tried to desperately hide it, in which case the others' curiosity and nosiness would lead them to uncover the story on their own and then the perpetrators were lightly teased and ridiculed for a few weeks by the rest of the House for keeping secrets. Even though it was specifically called the Chamber of _Secrets_ , Harry wasn't going to go out of his way and disobey Gryffindor tradition to keep what happened quiet.

Besides, they all probably wanted to hear the story of how he became King anyways.

Harry looks up at Tom who looks almost dead on his feet and is standing as awkwardly as he can while still looking regal as far away from Harry's chair as can while still being near it. The twelve year old stares lazily at him, eyes resting on his stiff yet delicate shoulders a slight downturn slant of his mouth. Harry knew what he was going to say would anger the teen but he was going to say it anyway.

"Come and sit, Tom," he commands, patting a puffy armrest on his chair.

Just as he expects, the glare he receives for his words could freeze even Hell, but Tom jerkily (yet still graceful, how was that even possible?) moves toward Harry's self-proclaimed throne and sitting primly where he indicated. One of the greatest things about the whole King-Knight bond is that Tom must obey every order Harry gives as long as it does not go directly against his main purpose of protecting Harry's life. Not that Harry would abuse this perk (much) but the fact that the angry baby Voldemort is now perched on the side of chair, almost simmering in silent rage, is almost too funny to not take advantage of. And at least now he's sitting down without the threat of passing out on his feet with his pride still intact.

Harry looked back over the common room and lightly smiled. A seventh year was sitting on the floor with a tiny first year in their lap. A group of four third year huddled together as they looked eagerly towards him. A few studious upper years remained sitting in front of their textbooks, quills scratching away, but ears turned towards him. Many others lounged on chairs or couches eyes pinned on either him, Tom, or the sword still in his lap, firelight glinting off the steel. Gryffindor really felt like a family at times like this.

"Okay," he began, sucking in a large dramatic breath before letting it rush back out, "You all have heard about the message on the wall, right?"

A round of nods and hums of confirmation was his answer.

"Well, Hermione left us a note with clues on it before she got petrified, so me and Ron went to tell Lockhart we knew where the Chamber was, but the fraud was trying to run away. So we forced him at wandpoint to go into the Chamber with us. It's entrance is actually located in a sink in Moaning Myrtle's abandoned bathroom. But it needs someone who speaks Parseltongue to open it."

A few people cringed at that before focusing back on him, but the majority just continued avidly listening to his tale.

"There's a bit of a slide through the pipes to enter it though, so Ron dropped his wand and Lockhart, the prick grabbed it. He told us that all his books were written of stories of other people's adventures before he erased their memory with, uh," Harry pauses, mind racing to remember the spell the blond haired man threw at him.

Percy pushes up his horn-rimmed glasses before offering, "Obliviate?"

The twelve year old straightens up and beams at the older Weasley before continuing, "Yeah, that's it! So he tells us he's going to obliviate us and tell everyone he found the Chamber of Secrets but Ginny died and the horror of her death made us lose our minds or something. But he only has Ron's wand on him and as you all know, Ron broke it before the first day of classes even started this year. So when he shot the spell at us, the spell exploded backwards and hit him instead, knocking him right into the ceiling and causing a cave in that split me and Ron up."

Some older years were looking grave and decidedly unhappy at the news while the younger years give off appropriately fearful gasps at all the right points.

"Ron tells me to go on and save Ginny and he'd focus on trying to make a path for me to return through. So I go on ahead only to see Ginny alone, passed out on the stone floor of the chamber."

A curious fourth year boy raises his hand before asking, "What did the chamber look like?"

Harry blinked, trying to recall. It wasn't like he was really focused on the chamber at the time. There was a dying first year and a ghostly Tom and _Godric Gryffindor's sword_. His surroundings just weren't as important in comparison.

"Uh, it was really big. Wet. And there were some statues of giant snakes and what I'm guessing was Slytherin too," he said before looking back at the boy who asked, who seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded for him to continue.

"Anyways, I see this journal I know from before. You guys remember me asking if any of you had seen it right? Yeah, well, apparently Tom here," here, he pats one of Tom's crossed legs, ignoring the glare he got in reply, "Was trapped in the diary and had been trying to suck Ginny's magic out of her to return him to his body."

He decides it's probably better not to mention he was apparently sucking the girl's _soul_ out instead of just her magic, which would have killed her. And he's _definitely_ not going to tell them about being the young version of the Dark Lord. It wouldn't really be fair to Tom for him to have to constantly deal with assassination attempts and hostility for things he hadn't done yet.

"And really I can't blame him for wanting a body after half of a century trapped in a book, but at the same time I knew he could call out the basilisk at any time and I really didn't want to die."

There are some snickers at that around the room along with a general air of confusion from some, which is remedied when Fred asks, "A basilisk?"

"A big, venomous snake with a deadly gaze."

Here, George tilts his to one side before asking, "How big are we talking?"

Harry's eyebrows narrowed in thought. Since he honestly didn't know, not having seen the basilisk, he turns to Tom with a curious, "How big?"

His reply is a deadpanned, "Really big."

The second year just nods, fine with the answer before looking back at the twins at his feet. The two look between him and the Slytherin before staring at each other for a few seconds and decisively nodding. Harry continues with his story.

"Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix came in and dropped the Sorting Hat, which I then pulled Gryffindor's sword from, and voila! I'm the King!"

A few laughs and a few cheers are heard and Harry grins before adding, "And I made Tom my Knight so he could use my magic to get a body instead of draining Ginny and that's about it."

Many teens get up to leave for the dorms and some go back to what they were previously doing in the common room, though a smattering of Gryffindor's stay and move closer to ask more questions. Harry leans over to lean against Tom as he focuses on the people before him, ignoring the stiffening of the fifth year.

Tom himself was surprised at what he had just borne witness to. He never imagined Gryffindor House to be so... Cohesive and _homely_. Compared to the mind games and political maneuvers he was used to, the comforting atmosphere of Gryffindor was rather _dis_ comforting. What was _more_ uncomfortable however was the black haired boy nestled into his side. He did not agree to that. Hell, he did not agree to _any_ of this.

Tom Riddle was tired. So, very, very tired.

He had half-expected the brat to tell the rest of his little friends that he was Lord Voldemort, but he was curiously silent on that front. He was also aware that the boy had left off many others things from his story that was incriminating of Tom himself, which was rather confusing, in and of itself. Was he trying to make Tom indebted to him? It would be rather pointless as Tom already is for his corporeal body, not to mention the fact that little monster already has him on a metaphorical leash.

Oh, there are ways around the bond, make no mistake that Tom hadn't already puzzled out many options if the boy becomes demanding, but for the most part he is stuck with him.

Literally, so it would seem, if the boy's position was anything to go by. They really needed to set some ground rules on that (Tom vehemently ignores the fact that if anyone set rules down on their bond it would be _Potter_ ).

Finally, after a good thirty minutes or so of going in and out of a doze while sitting up, Harry decides it's time to head to bed. Tom dogs his steps, attentively taking in his surroundings while still on the verge of sleep. Harry pauses in the doorway of what is apparently his room and quietly whispers to him, "Ah, it seems like the castle added a bed beside mine for you Tom," before going over and sitting down on a certain bed.

Sure enough, there is a bed significantly closer to Harry's than the even spacings between the other beds has. Tom is so tired he barely has it in him to frown in distaste before falling onto the red, red, red of the thick comforter and promptly pass out, the quiet giggling of the little monster the last thing he's aware of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Tom and Harry get thrown out of Ollivanders.
> 
> I offer you some fluff in these trying times.
> 
> Next chapter may take a little longer to get out because it's planned to be pretty massive and I don't have it pre-written like I did these.
> 
> You know lying on the concrete on a hot summer day and looking parallel at the ground you can /see/ heat waves? That's kind of like Harry's visual magic sensitivity, but it's also a 'feeling' and can have temperature/taste/emotions attached to it.
> 
> I had a dream where Harry was Skull and now I just really want a bitter Cloud!Harry / broken Wrath-Sky!Voldie. Like little Harry bonded with the broken piece of sky in his head which helped keep him sane while he was locked up first in a cupboard and normalsville and then in a gilded cage (everyone knows clouds shouldn't be held down). It could be good, I swear.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming up next: Tom monologues and has zero situational awareness.
> 
> I'll probably put up the first chapter either tonight or tomorrow because this was just the preface.
> 
> What to look forward to: A Harry who is slightly crazy because he has no fear, Tom Riddle the babysitter/guard dog of said crazy boy-king, Hermione who is an enabler, a completely oblivious Ron, normal Luna, almost fanatically loyal twins, and almost no responsible adults at all.


End file.
